15.12.10

When you're suffieciently saddle-sore, any rum will do.
(And you'll even settle for Pepsi, as a mixer.)

Gotta love that Leatherman.
Somewhere along the road, the fiddly little plastic thing that switches the fuel tap from main to reserve, breaks off. The control nut, however, is very much still in place. Discover this when I run into reserve. Unsheath Leatherman. Unfold pliers. Quick twist of the wrist. Ride up to the next bunk, grinning.

How come people you meet on a road trip, are always so pleasant?
They always have time to stop and give you directions. And ask where you're from, or where you're headed. Maybe all of us in the big city ought to find a little more time for each other.

Why do guys in small cars on the Bangalore-Mysore highway, drive like such jerks?
Guys in Swifts. Guys in Santros. Pretty much any guy in a hatchback. (Except for the old 800.) Very odd. Maybe they feel inadequate. Strangely enough, the Merc-Beemer-Audi brigade are so much better behaved. Maybe they're just better drivers. (Or have better drivers.)

Truckers are a biker's best friend.
Going up or down a hill, or riding along a twisty, narrow country road, and sooner or later you wind up behind a truck that's just trundling along. The guy pretty much always sees you in his rear view, and let's you know when to pass. Or flags you off, when there's oncoming traffic, that you can't see. In case he hasn't noticed you, a short friendly toot on the horn gets the man's attention. And chances are you'll get a wave and a grin, as you pass.

Sooner or later, on any given road trip, you'll come across a guy with a backpack, on a Bullet.
And even if, like me, you can't be arsed to join one of the multitude of motor clubs for Enfield enthusiasts, you wind up exchanging a nod and a wave, anyway.